


Victor Alexandrovich

by so_shhy



Series: ADHD Vitya [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Weddings, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_shhy/pseuds/so_shhy
Summary: Max was six years old the last time he saw Vitya. One wedding invitation isn't going to make them brothers.





	Victor Alexandrovich

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tawabids for the beta and for giving me the confidence to post a story that is roughly 80% OCs.
> 
> When I wrote the first story in this series I named one of Victor’s half-brothers Vasiliy, pretty much at random. I didn't figure he'd have more than a mention. Then suddenly I was writing 12k about Vasya and Vitya. For the sake of my sanity, I renamed him about halfway through writing this. Vasiliy/Vasya/Vasyusha has become Maxim/Max/Maximka.

Max is up in his attic bedroom, on his twentieth run-through of a fiendishly difficult few bars of Shostakovich’s violin sonata, when Katya yells up the stairs to him.

“Max!”

He lowers his bow. “I’m using my mute already!” he yells back. “I can’t play it any quieter.”

“Not that. Mama wants to talk to us!”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Get down here!”

Max sighs and sets the violin down, resigning himself. When he gets downstairs Pasha and Katya are already waiting at the kitchen table. Mama is making tea. She looks nervous, but that’s not unusual; she often does. Max pulls out a chair, giving Pasha a questioning look and getting a shrug in return.

Steaming tea in hand, Mama comes to sit with them. In her other hand is an envelope. “I opened it by mistake,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see that it was addressed to the three of you.”

Pasha lays a hand on her arm. “That’s okay, Mama. What is it?”

“It’s from Vitya.”

“What?”

She hands him the envelope. He opens it, and his forehead wrinkles as he looks at the large cream-coloured piece of card.

“Huh.”

“Let me see,” say Max and Katya in unison, both reaching out. Pasha slides the card across the table. Max grabs it first – his arms are longer – and holds it where they can both read. The script is fancy, calligraphic. Their names, all three of them. Then… _Victor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuuri request the pleasure of your company…_

“A wedding invitation?” says Katya, almost in a squeal. “Holy shit.”

There’s a handwritten message below the printed details on the invitation, in a messy scrawl:

_Hello little ones!_

_I’m getting married! I would love for you to be there. Please come! We will send you tickets and organise a hotel for you._

_Love,_

_Vitya_

 

“This is so cool!” says Katya, still high-pitched with excitement. “Did you and Papa get one too?”

“No,” says Mama. “Just you.”

“Yours must’ve got delayed in the mail. Oh my god, in Japan? Are we going, Mama? Can we?”

“Your papa and I aren’t invited.”

“Huh? Why?”

There’s something wrong with the invitation, Max realises. He hadn’t noticed at first because on TV the commentators just say Victor Nikiforov. But on a wedding invitation it should say Alexandrovich.

It’s weird. He doesn’t like it.

Mama gives a small smile. “You should go,” she says, ignoring Katya’s question. “He was always very fond of you.”

Pasha nods instantly. “Yes, we should go. It’s only polite. He’s our brother and he invited us.”

“He’s our _half_ -brother,” says Max. He pushes the invitation back across the table. “It’s for May. Don’t you have exams, Pasha? And Papa’s never going to let me and Katya take time off school in the middle of term.”

“I’ll talk to him,” says Mama. She gets up from the table as though there’s nothing more to be said.

 

***

 

The three of them convene in Katya’s room.

“Why us, but not Mama and Papa?” says Katya, flopping down onto the bed. “Pasha?”

Pasha settles himself on the floor, crammed against the desk to leave space for Max. “I’m not sure.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not.”

“Fine. Be like that.”

“This is bullshit,” says Max. He doesn’t sit down. “Why should we go? We don’t even know him.”

“Mama wants us to,” says Pasha. “She feels bad that we never see Vitya. It’ll make her happy if we go.”

“Ugh. Perfect Pavel. Why does everything have to be about making Mama happy?”

“Not everything.”

“It’ll be exciting to go to Japan,” says Katya. She sprawls out onto her back, raising one hand and looking up at her orange-painted nails. “I want to. It’s embarrassing when people find out he’s my brother. They ask me about him and I don’t have anything to say. I bet the wedding will be in the news. What am I supposed to do if someone asks me what it was like?”

Max rolls his eyes. “Shallow, much?”

“Wow, you’re being a jerk today. What’s with you?”

“I don’t see why I have to haul ass across the world for the wedding of someone I don’t know or care about.”

“Suuuure, you don’t care. Which of us arranged Stammi Vicino for string quartet?”

“So I can’t like a piece of music now?”

“Stop it, you two,” Pasha cuts in. “You’re acting like children. Mama wants us to go and we’re going. You’re outvoted, Max.”

“This is _bullshit_.”

“Hah,” says Katya, smug.

Max leaves them to talk about the trip and stomps upstairs. His fingers are itching so he plugs in his headphones and sits down at his electric piano. It isn’t as soothing as playing the violin, but it has the benefit of being silent. His fingers slide inconsequentially over the keys, blending harmonies that have little to do with any actual piece of music. Then, without him really thinking about it, he finds his hands moving into the piano arrangement of Stammi Vicino.

It’s a beautiful piece. He’s loved it ever since he first heard it, sitting with Katya in the family living room and watching a familiar figure, rose pink and gold, dancing across the ice.

 

***

 

Papa doesn’t talk about it to any of them, doesn’t really mention it, but Mama says they’re allowed to go. Max doesn’t have much choice. Katya and Pasha have made up their minds, so six months later they’re all on their way to a wedding.

It’s a long, tedious journey. From their home in Nizhny they fly to Moscow, then overnight to Seoul, then to Fukuoka. The train ride to Hasetsu drags interminably.

“Be grateful,” says Pasha. “Business class flights must have cost him a fortune.”

“He’s stupidly rich. He should have sprung for first class,” says Max, looking away from the repetitive view of flat green fields and dark, distant hills.

Pasha and Katya exchange a glance. Katya wrinkles her nose.

As the train pulls into Hasetsu station they manhandle their bags out of the luggage racks and make their way to the doors. They’re not the only people getting out, or even the only Europeans. The long escalators down to the ticket hall are almost crowded. At the barriers they pause so Pasha can pass out tickets. Max and Katya both watch to see how he puts his in the machine before trying it themselves.

“Where do we go?” says Katya once they’re all safely through. Other people are streaming out of the station while the three of them look around. “He’s supposed to meet us, right?”

Just then someone calls out, “Hello!” in horrendously accented Russian.

They all spin around. A small, flustered-looking man is hurrying towards them. He’s Japanese, slim and round-faced. For a moment he’s unfamiliar, until Max’s mind suddenly sees past the messy hair and chunky glasses. The man resolves into focus as World Championship gold medallist Yuuri Katsuki. Katya practically vibrates as she stares. She’s a fan. Not quite the type of fan who has posters on her walls – her bedroom is decorated with her own pencil drawings of Sofia Kovalevskaya, Alan Turing, Ada Lovelace – but fan enough to be excited. Max just feels blank. He’s never wanted to meet a celebrity – he’s always thought it would be awkward, trying to talk to someone who had absolutely no interest in him. And in this case… well, if Yuuri _is_ interested in him it’s only as Vitya’s brother.

“Hello!” says Yuuri again in his terrible Russian, giving a bow of greeting almost before he comes to a standstill. “My name is Yuuri. Welcome. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry I’m late.” He looks so nervous and he speaks so stiltedly that he seems like an imperfect facsimile of the intense, focused athlete from TV.

Pasha steps forward with a smile and holds out his hand to shake. “We’re delighted to meet you, Yuuri. I’m Pasha. This is Max, and my sister Katya. Thank you for inviting us to your wedding, and for meeting us here. Excuse my asking, but would you prefer to speak English?”

Yuuri blinks at Pasha, wide-eyed. He seems to jerk himself back to awareness to say, “Yes, thank you!” Then, in English, “If that’s okay with all of you?”

“Of course. Katya’s a little slow with it, but she’ll manage – won’t you?”

“English is fine,” Katya says, smiling sweetly and trying to subtly kick Pasha in the ankle.

Yuuri flashes a smile at her before his eyes zero back in on Pasha. “Victor tries to teach me,” he says, “but it’s harder than I expected, especially when so many of the people I know in Russia speak English. Nobody wants to listen to me butchering Russian. Oh! You must be wondering where he is. He’s going to meet us at your hotel, he – we – got confused about when you were arriving, and then there were some schedule clashes. We’ve got a lot to do before tomorrow!”

“We appreciate you both taking the time.”

“That’s – that’s okay.”

“Why are you looking at him like that?” says Max. “Does he have something on his face?”

Yuuri blushes scarlet. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m staring!” he stammers. He gives Pasha a strange half-bow. “I’m very sorry. I just keep…” he makes a vague, half-formed gesture, “it’s almost like looking at Victor with dark hair. You’re so like him.”

“Am I?” says Pasha, unruffled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Shall we go?” He nudges Katya gently with an elbow. She takes the hint and turns her most innocently charming smile on Yuuri as he leads them to where he parked his car, chattering away in her ungrammatical English, telling him about the trip and asking easy-to-answer questions about the things they see, about Yuuri’s home, and what will happen at the wedding.

Pasha drops back to Max’s side. “You don’t have to be happy to be here,” he says, “but don’t be rude.”

“I wasn’t rude. It was _him_ being rude. I was just saying.”

“Are you going to sulk this whole trip?”

“I’m not sulking.”

Pasha sighs. “Suit yourself.”

***

 

Their hotel turns out to be a large, low building opposite a footpath that winds its way around the bay. Yuuri parks close to the door and they all pile out, distracted by the view of misty islands and bright blue sea. Behind them there’s an enthusiastic woof. Yuuri turns as a brown poodle trots up to him. “Hi Makka,” he says, petting the dog in greeting. “Hi, beautiful girl. Where’s Victor?”

Max stares. His mind flashes back to a tiny, frolicking, fluffy creature, all wagging tail and wet, enthusiastic licks. _You can pet her_ … _gently, gently. See! She likes you!_

There’s grey in the dog’s muzzle. She moves stiffly alongside Yuuri as he walks up the path.

Then the door of the hotel opens and Victor Alexandrovich Nikiforov steps out.

He doesn’t look like Pasha. He doesn’t look like anyone’s brother. He’s all airy, catwalk-ready perfection even in just a t-shirt and casual pants, his hair artfully styled to fall across his forehead, his smile blindingly bright.

“Yuuri, you found them!” he says, bounding forwards. He opens his arms wide. “Hello, little ones! It’s been too long!”

It’s Pasha who responds first. Calm as ever, he steps into the embrace as though it’s been six months, not ten years, since they last met. “Vitya, it’s good to see you,” he says. “Congratulations. I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”

Vitya laughs delightedly. “Yuuri, didn’t I tell you he was the polite one? Ah, Pashenka, you’re just the same!” He lets Pasha go. “And are you really little Katyushka?” he asks Katya, leaning down to kiss her on both cheeks. His hand goes to her hair, taking a strand of it between his fingers. “What’s happened here? You used to be blonde.”

She giggles, glancing at Pasha instead of meeting Vitya’s eyes. “Only when I was tiny. It got darker.”

“Well, it suits you! You match, all three of you.”

Katya gives a quick nod and a shy smile. She retreats and tucks herself against Pasha’s side.

Vitya turns to Max. “Hello, sunbeam,” he says.

_Sunbeam?_

Max stands frozen. Pasha had made the hug look so normal, it would be odd if he didn’t… but he doesn’t want to. He was six years old the last time he saw Vitya, maybe nine or ten when they last spoke, a quick few words at the end of one of Papa’s phone calls. They don’t know each other.

He lets himself be hugged. It’s warm and too enthusiastic.

“Welcome to Hasetsu,” says the man who isn’t his brother. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Thank you.”

“Did you have a good trip?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“It was very comfortable,” says Pasha. “We’re all tired, though. With the time difference my brain is telling me it’s still sometime in the morning, but we’ve been up for most of a day. I’m sure you know the feeling – it must be even worse from Saint Petersburg. Maybe you can give us some tips to help us with getting up on time tomorrow?”

“Of course! Yuuri’s good at that! Yuuri?”

“Uh?”

Vitya laughs. In English, he repeats, “Pasha wants some tips for getting over jetlag.”

“Oh!” says Yuuri, going slightly pink. “Sorry. Yes, okay.”

“You two talk. We’ll bring in the bags!” says Vitya, making an expansive gesture to include Max and Katya. He opens the trunk and starts unloading their things – cases, a couple of garment bags, and - “Is this a violin?” He beams and looks around at them, eyes settling on Katya. “Yours?” he guesses.

Max flinches. “Mine. I’ve been playing since I was four.”

“Oh! Yes, I remember.”

 _No_ , Max thinks, watching his expression, _you don’t._

 

***

 

At the hotel desk they get issued slippers and colourful Yukata before the clerk escorts them to a suite. Again, Vitya has been generous. It’s far more spacious than they need, with an area of western-style sofas and another with a low table and floor chairs. Two bedrooms are split off with screens, with a double futon in each. Katya, delighted, takes first pick and shuts the screen so she can change into her Yukata right away.

“The staff here will make sure you’re looked after,” Yuuri tells Pasha. “I’m so sorry we can’t be proper hosts but we have things to do tonight.”

“Of course you do,” says Pasha. “We wouldn’t dream of expecting you to look after us on the day before your wedding. It’s very kind of you to take the time to get us settled.”

Max tries not to roll his eyes. It’s like a politeness contest: Yuuri’s embarrassed apologies versus Pasha’s adept assurances. Yuuri gets bonus points for earnestness, but Pasha still wins overall. He always does.

Once the soon-to-be-married couple head off on their pre-wedding errands, Max pokes his head into Katya’s room and finds her curled up in her Yukata on the futon, already fast asleep.

Pasha sighs. “She won’t sleep tonight,” he says, but he doesn’t object when Max slides the door shut again. “Hey, Max…?”

“What?”

Pasha’s looking at him the way he looks at Mama; the same watchful, considering expression. “Nothing,” he says after a moment. “Just checking in. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine. I guess I can’t play in here?”

Pasha glances around. “No. You’ll disturb someone,” he says. “Why don’t you go down to the waterfront? You’ll be fine there if you use your mute. Play something passers-by could stand to listen to, though. Not that Shostakovich thing.”

Max shrugs and picks up his violin case. He wanders through the hotel, spotting a couple of people who are probably skaters on the way, and crosses the road to the waterside path. He plays from memory – simple Bach partitas, a Schubert piece, some arrangements from movie soundtracks. A couple of people pause to listen. Nobody interrupts.

He doesn’t play Stammi Vicino. He hears it anyway.

 

***

 

That night, after a quiet meal of room service, he lies tucked under a thick comforter next to Pasha on the double futon. His eyes don’t want to close. He stares up at the ceiling, searching idly for pictures in the patches of light and shadow thrown by the blinds and the streetlights outside.

Next to him, Pasha shifts. “I can hear you thinking,” he says.

“This is weird. I don’t know why we’re here. And why aren’t Mama and Papa? You know, don’t you?”

There’s a pause. Then Pasha says, “I know Vitya did badly in school.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Maybe nothing. But it was pretty extreme, I think. He failed everything and he was always in trouble. He’d have been kicked out a dozen times over if he wasn’t such a successful athlete. Papa was angry with him a lot.”

None of them have ever done badly in school. Katya’s the really clever one, the natural mathematician. Pasha is just all-round bright, enough that when he was in high school he led his class in almost every subject. Max does the same without really trying. It’s hard to imagine how Papa would react if one of them failed a class. It’s never happened. It’s never going to.

Max makes a face in the darkness of the room. “Sounds like he thought he could get away with anything because he was a skating star.”

“He wasn’t very happy at home. That’s what Mama says.”

“Why does Mama tell you things and not me?”

There’s a quiet huff of laughter from the other side of the futon. “I don’t know, Max. Maybe because I talk to her and spend time with her and ask her how she is.”

“Perfect Pavel.”

“I do my best,” says Pasha. The words are half-swallowed by another yawn. “Go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

 

***

 

“Well,” says Christophe Giacometti, “If Yuuri ever wants to trade in for a younger model…”

Pasha manages a light chuckle. “You know, I’d never realised quite how much I look like my brother until today. You’re not the first person to mention it.”

Katya is clutching at Max’s hand, shaking with the attempt to hold in her laughter. Max is trying not to laugh too, but there’s a lump of something heavy and unpleasant inside his chest. It’s been there since they arrived at the park where the wedding’s being held, getting heavier with every person who’s taken one look at Pasha and guessed instantly who they are. The conversations have been constant variations on the same themes. First, _you look just like him_. Second, _I didn’t know he had siblings_.

The next person to approach is an elderly man whose voice is faintly familiar. Max’s brain calls up a hazy, half-forgotten memory. An ice rink, and Vitya skating while this man looked on. Max must have been tiny at the time, young enough to be scared when the man shouted. Young enough that he cried and Mama took him home.

“Is your father here?” asks Yakov, once the introductions are made.

They all hesitate. Max looks to Pasha, and catches Katya doing the same. Out of sight, Pasha taps Katya lightly on the elbow. She fixes Yakov with her best innocent look. “He wasn’t invited,” she says. And then, without giving him a moment to ask why, she continues, “I’m not even sure why we were. We don’t know Victor Alexandrovich at all. I was too small to remember him when he lived with us.”

She smiles at him and chatters on, charming and inane. Max senses Pasha relaxing by increments.

It’s a relief when they’re called to sit down for the ceremony. They settle into a row, with Katya on the aisle so she doesn’t have to crane over people’s heads to see.

“That’s Phichit Chulanont,” she whispers to Max, nodding towards the tiny man waiting at the archway of flowers. “Oh my god, is he officiating?”

“Shh,” hisses Pasha.

Katya rolls her eyes.

“Hello, Yuuri and Victor’s friends and family,” Phichit announces, once everyone’s quiet. His voice is bubbly with excitement. “It’s great to see you all here, and I hope you’re all as happy as I am! My name is Phichit, and as Yuuri’s best friend I’ve been asked to officiate here today. And hey, right on time. If you can all stand up, I can see the happy couple on their way over. ” He bounces slightly on his feet so he can wave over the heads of the rising crowd. “Yuuri! Looking _fiiiine!”_

Along with everyone else, Max cranes around to see. It’s true. With his glasses off and his hair styled, Yuuri is ridiculously handsome in the same way that Vitya is, the same catwalk-ready perfection. It’s the way they carry themselves, perhaps. Heads held high, on show, like models. He’s wearing a powder blue jacket that should look silly but instead just makes him look every inch the athlete that he hadn’t been when he picked them up from the train station. Beside him, Vitya is flawless in white. The suit, the shining hair, his eyes, his smile, are all so bright they shouldn’t be real.

They walk up the aisle between the chairs, hands clasped and swinging. When they arrive at the front, Phichit hugs Yuuri, then Victor, and makes them both turn around to show themselves off to the audience. Victor does a twirl and ends with a flourishing bow. Yuuri goes pink and tries to hide his face in his hands. He’s laughing. They both are.

Phichit speaks for a few minutes, about Yuuri, and love, and friendship, and people supporting each other. It’s a good speech, Max supposes. Sweet and funny. People laugh in the right places and clap in the right places. Then Phichit introduces Yuuri’s sister, who talks for a while in Japanese. She’s funny too, judging by the reactions of the people who can understand her. There are chuckles and cheers and Yuuri goes even pinker.

Finally Phichit is back, inviting Victor and Yuuri to make their vows. They’ve written their own. They’re saccharine, overemotional clichés.

“…you brought life and love back into my heart… You taught me about a whole new world I’d never known… I promise to always love you and watch over you…”

…When I can’t believe in myself, you always believe in me… You meet me where I am… I will always be there for you, to help you the way you’ve helped me…”

By the end of it they’re both crying, blotting at each other’s tears with a handkerchief. When Phichit announces that they can kiss, they do, briefly and passionately, and then spend long moments just looking at each other while the audience give them a standing ovation

Max stands with the rest and claps along. The light breeze is catching the sweat at his suit collar. He feels very cold.

 

***

 

There are no speeches during the buffet lunch. That’s all happening later at the rink. By unspoken agreement the three Nikiforovs avoid company while they eat. Vitya and Yuuri are swarmed by well-wishers, so there’s no point trying to say hello. Instead they find a quiet corner and talk amongst themselves, making an unapproachable unit until it’s time to get on the coach to Ice Castle Hasetsu.

When they arrive the place is already crowded with locals and skating fans. As they make their way through the stands, Pasha keeps his head subtly ducked to hide his face.

“This is going to be so cool,” Katya says, checking the letters at the end of each row of seats. “I’ve never seen him skate except on TV.”

“You have. In Turin.”

“That doesn’t count. I was three. I don’t even remember it.”

“Four. You were four, Max was six. I think you were both more excited about going on a plane than seeing the Olympics.”

 _No, I wasn’t,_ Max wants to say, but he can’t be sure that Pasha’s wrong. His recollection of the trip is a string of disjointed moments: craning to see out of the window as the plane took off; the breakfast buffet at the hotel, where a man in a chef’s coat and hat made him an omelette while he watched; holding Papa’s hand as they walked through a snowy street, keeping his other hand hidden in his pocket because he didn’t want to admit he had lost his glove. Perhaps the memory of Vitya’s skating is constructed from watching YouTube videos, not something he truly paid attention to as a six-year-old. But at least one memory of it must be real: the feel of the heavy silver medal in his hands, and thinking how everyone at school would be impressed that he got to touch it.

“I do kind of remember the plane. They gave me crayons,” says Katya. She leads the way into the next row of seats, then glances at the tickets in her hand. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three – this is us.”

There’s already music playing, a bright, upbeat selection of songs to put the audience in a party mood – not that they need the help. It feels like a party already. The adults received a glass of champagne apiece when they arrived. The children’s fingers are sticky with cake frosting.

Max eyes his own lavish piece of cake and longs for champagne. At home Papa always lets him have a glass at special occasions, and even Katya a sip. None of them are old enough to drink here. He eats the cake to keep himself occupied, and pays enough attention to Pasha and Katya’s conversation to throw in a comment here and there. It’s only been ten minutes or so when the loudspeakers announce that the show is starting. It feels much longer.

It’s Phichit again up first, out on the ice with a microphone and a translator for the Japanese speakers. He gives a little speech about meeting Yuuri in Detroit, how kind and funny and talented Yuuri had been beneath his shyness, and how determined Phichit had been to draw him out of himself, certain that he’d be worth the effort of getting to know. Then he’s joined by Seung Gil Lee, wearing a Team Japan tracksuit and big chunky glasses, and also Leo de la Igelsia and Guang-Hong Ji in… are those hamster headdresses? The music that comes on is “ _You’ve Got a Friend in Me_ ” and the routine they skate has the audience in fits of laughter, Seung Gil’s Yuuri ducking away as Phichit chases him, the two hamsters bobbing along cheerfully in their wake.

Next up is Mila Babicheva in an ash-blond wig, skating as Vitya to “ _Anything You Can Do I can Do Better_ ”, demonstrating jumps to an increasingly irritated Yuuri Plisetsky. Then Christophe Giacometti skates the story of how Vitya and Yuuri first met, joined by his ice dancer boyfriend playing the part of Vitya.

“Woah,” breathes Katya, as the arena echoes with “ _I’m Sexy and I Know It_ ”.

“You’re too young to be watching this,” says Pasha.

The two skaters end up pressed together, practically grinding on one another. Katya’s mouth is hanging open.

Christophe is followed by the Crispino siblings with a much more innocent routine about Vitya and “the love of his life”, with Sara skating as Makkachin. And then…

“To finish off the first half of our show,” Phichit announces, “Here are the people you’ve all been waiting to see!”

The lights dim, and a spotlight falls on the ice, tracking the arrival of the next skater. It’s Yuuri, and the music swelling around him is the Stammi Vicino duet.

Max’s breath catches. He waits, waits, barely seeing Yuuri, focused on the point where Vitya will emerge. And there he is, rose-pink and gold, swooping across the ice to Yuuri as the soprano voice joins the tenor.

_Stammi vicino, non te ne andare  
Ho paura di perdeti_

_Don’t go away_ , Max’s brain supplies. _I’m afraid of losing you._

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says. He pushes himself to his feet and sidesteps awkwardly along the row as people squeeze their knees out of his way. He doesn’t glance back at the ice but he can’t block out the music and he knows what he would see. He walks up the through the stands and down the stairs, out and away, with the music fading behind him. He keeps walking, choosing turns at random, until the squat, square form of Ice Castle Hasetsu is out of sight.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out. The message is from Pasha.

_Are you okay?_

_Fine,_ Max writes back. _Got bored._

There’s a long pause before the phone buzzes again.

_We’ll meet you at the hotel when the show’s over. Do you know the way back?_

A moment later another message comes through. This time it’s just the hotel address. Max mumbles an irritated curse, because… because fuck Pasha, that’s why. But he plugs the address into his maps app.

Nobody’s on the reception desk. The place is deserted. He goes up to the room and gets out his violin. He doesn’t bother with the mute, just throws himself into Shostakovich. Without the piano accompaniment the violin part sounds incoherent, a series of frenzied musical scribbles. The silence when he’s done is as jarring as the music. He fills it with Vitali’s Chaconne in G minor, a piece he’s always thought of as self-indulgently wallowing, then leafs through his sheet music without pausing long enough to think about what he’s doing. Bach is easy to get lost in. He runs through a soothing half hour of smooth, intricate harmonies. Afterwards he sits for a while on the futon, trying to ignore the aria playing on repeat in his mind.

He doesn’t remember his eyelids getting heavy, but he wakes some undefined time later to Pasha shaking his shoulder. He sits up, scowling.

“Hey,” says Pasha gently. “What happened back there?”

“Nothing. What time is it?”

“Max…”

Max wants to throw the violin straight into his concerned, sympathetic face. “God, why are you like this? You’re obsessed with fussing over people. Just switch to nursing school already.”

“I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

Pasha sighs. “If you don’t want to talk I can’t make you. It’s seven o’clock, the party’s about to start.” He pauses. “You don’t have to come.”

“Of course I’m coming,” says Max, and goes to change his wrinkled shirt.

 

***

 

The party is already in full swing, a vast gathering spilling out into the streets. After a few bewildering minutes they run into Mila Babicheva, who escorts them inside and twirls Katya, surprised and stumbling, onto the dance floor. Within moments Katya is having the time of her life, dancing with her skating heroine. Pasha chats easily with the onlookers. He’s wearing his public persona, a robot-person stuck on the “polite and pleasant” setting. He smiles a lot and hardy ever laughs.

Max eyes the open bar.

“Sunbeam!” calls a voice.

Vitya is striding over, eyes sparkling, beaming with Katya’s smile, with _Papa’s_ smile. He spreads his arms wide and sweeps Max into a tight hug. “I’m so happy,” he says. “Isn’t he the most beautiful, perfect man alive? And he _married_ me. I’m married! I thought I was used to the idea, but when we skated together today I realised all over again that we’ll stay together forever.”

Max feels paralysed in the embrace. “I’m happy for you,” he says mechanically. He doesn’t think it matters much what he says.

Vitya steps back, looking him up and down, still beaming. “Come and dance with me!” he says. “I wish you were still small enough to stand on my feet for it; that was fun! You were so sweet. And you should dance with my Yuuri too. I want you to know each other.”

Max draws in a panicked breath. Fortunately before he has to find a response Vitya is distracted by Christophe Giacometti throwing an arm around his shoulders and pushing another drink into his hand. Max escapes to the side of the room, a place of relative peace, and stands there wishing desperately for the numbing burn of alcohol.

There’s someone else standing by the wall, someone whose scowl doesn’t fit at all into the spirit of the evening. The distinctive blond mop of hair marks him out instantly. After a few moments his glare, sweeping disinterestedly around the room, lands on Max.

Max gives him a nod of acknowledgement. “Yura,” he says, mouthing the name clearly because it’ll be inaudible over the distance and the music. It might be over-familiar, but he doesn’t feel the need to be respectful to some kid who’s less than a year older than he is.

Yuri Plisetsky makes his way over, brows drawn together and mouth set in a flat line. “Who the hell are you?” he says.

“Max. Maxim Alexandrovich Nikiforov.”

“Wait, are you Victor’s sunbeam?”

Max stares at him for a moment in silence. Then he asks, “Is there any way to get a drink?”

Yura’s scowl doesn’t soften, but it shifts so it’s directed at the bar staff instead of at Max. “I don’t know why he had to get married in this stupid country with its stupid alcohol laws,” he says. “Katsudon told them not to serve me, and Victor’s whipped. But if you’re up for it we might be able to arrange something.”

Ten minutes later they’re sitting side by side on a park bench, passing a stolen bottle of champagne back and forth.

Yura’s… not awful. They talk about music mostly. Max quite likes the piece of music Yura used for his latest free skate, and it’s interesting to hear how he chose it and worked with it and what he found compelling about it. Also, Yura doesn’t actually know much about music beyond the basics. He doesn’t really understand the structure of the piece, so Max gets to talk and feel like he isn’t making a fool of himself. They move from classical to modern, the artists they like, the bands they’ve been to see in Russia.

“You’re not much like Victor,” says Yura, managing to sound both condescending and mildly approving. Before Max can snap that he’s glad to hear it, Yura carries on, “You’re drunk and you still have your clothes on. Victor’s disgusting. What about the other one – Mini-Victor? Is he going to get wasted and strip to his underwear?”

“Don’t call him that.”

Yura rolls his eyes. “Whatever his name is, then. Victor might have told me. I don’t listen to half the shit he says.”

“His name’s Pasha,” says Max, too loudly. He _is_ drunk, more drunk than he’d realised. They’re nearly halfway through the second bottle of champagne.

A figure is approaching, shadowed in the dusk. Max doesn’t recognise him but Yura does.

“Hey Beka.”

Otabek Altin. Max is suddenly aware that half the people at this wedding have international sporting medals. It hits him that he’s been chatting for an hour with Yuri Plisetsky, who won the Grand Prix Final when he was fifteen. All Max has is perfect grades and a violin.

“Yura,” says Otabek, holding out his hand for the bottle. “Thanks.” He takes a swig and adds, “I’m keeping this.”

“Fuck you, asshole. Give it back.”

“Not while you’re corrupting children,” Otabek says, ignoring the fact that Yura has no right to be drinking either. “Who’s he?”

“That’s Victor’s baby brother.”

“Huh.” With a mildly interested glance at Max, Otabek says, “I didn’t know Victor had a brother.”

“Yeah, it was news to me too.”

Max’s chest tightens. Suddenly the evening is not even slightly okay. It _sucks_. Otabek Altin stole the champagne and called him a child and everything is shitty. He has no reason to be here. He doesn’t want to be here but he is, he’s stuck at some godawful wedding in Japan and it’s all Victor Nikiforov’s fucking fault.

He gets to his feet, staggering only a little. “I have to go,” he says.

“Everything okay?” asks Otabek.

Max doesn’t bother to answer. Why should they care where he goes or what he does? He doesn’t matter to them any more than he matters to Vitya. He leaves them under the glow of the streetlight. Walking into the dark, following the sound of music back to the party, he feels like he’s becoming even more invisible than he’s been all this time.

 

***

 

Back inside, the bass is pounding too loud, the lights are too bright, and the crowd is a confusing whirl. The only clear, inescapable thing within the blur is Vitya, unmissable in his brilliant white suit, slow-dancing with Yuuri in the centre of the dance floor.

Centre of attention. Centre of everything.

 _That’s Victor’s baby brother_ , Yura’s careless voice says in his mind. That’s all he is, and Vitya doesn’t even know him. Doesn’t know anything about him. Hasn’t ever bothered to look at him.

Well, that’s going to change. He’s going to walk up to Victor Nikiforov, the star of the show, and tell him exactly how much he hates him. And everyone can get a fucking good look at that.

He lurches forwards, and makes it all of three steps towards the couple before someone steps in front of him and grabs his arm.

“You’re drunk. What are you doing?”

Max wrenches out of Pasha’s grip, and when Pasha won’t let him shoulder past he draws back his fist.

“Don’t,” says Pasha sharply.

“Let me past.”

“No.”

“I’ll fucking punch you.”

“You’ll hurt your hand.”

“I don’t care,” says Max, but he does. He drops his fist. It’s his bow hand. His other hand goes automatically to cradle his knuckles.

Pasha takes gently him by the shoulders. “Take a breath.”

“Let me go,” says Max, but he doesn’t resist when Pasha steers him to the side of the room, out of the crowd.

“Tell me what you’re trying to do.”

“I just,” Max begins, stumbling over the words. “I _hate_ him. He… just because he’s famous and rich he thinks… he thinks he gets to ignore us for as long as he likes and then just… invite us? And we have to come running, just to watch everyone worship him. Fuck him. I want to… He never, he never even sent a birthday card and now… we’re _here_ but… we’re nothing. We don’t even exist. Nobody knows we exist. He can’t pretend he’s our brother now.”

“Max, you need to calm down.”

“No, _fuck_ you Pasha. I don’t. I need to… I, he, he can’t do that, it’s not fair. He never came back. It’s not fair.”

Pasha’s wearing his infuriating expression of understanding and sympathy _._ “You’re right,” he says. “It isn’t fair.”

“I hate him. I should…”

“Come here, Maximka,” says Pasha. He gathers Max into a hug. “I get it. I do. I’m sorry.”

“I want to tell him.”

“I know.” Pasha shifts their weight gently from side to side, as though he’s rocking a child. “I know, but not today, okay? Not on his wedding day.”

“I want to.”

“Another time, I promise. I’ll make sure.”

Max leans more heavily against Pasha. The floor is slanting under him. The music is a thumping blur in his ears. “I want to go home,” he says. “I want to be in Russia.”

“We’ll go home soon. Just another few days. Or sooner, if you want. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

It’s comforting, Pasha’s arms around him. He wonders sometimes if Mama finds it as comforting to be looked after by Pasha. “You’re a good brother,” he mumbles. “You’re my favourite brother.”

“You’re a good brother too.”

“Am I your favourite brother?”

“Of course you are. We’re going to go back to the hotel now, okay? You need to lie down.”

“Katya…?”

“She’s fine,” says Pasha. “I’ll come back for her later. Let’s get you settled first.”

 

***

 

He isn’t sure how they get back to the hotel. The world is hazy. He’s dazedly aware that Pasha makes him drink water and helps him out of his suit. Then he’s alone in the dark; the other side of the futon is empty.

Memories flood in. He remembers Vitya’s visits to the house, which always meant laughter and wonderful games of make-believe; petting Makkachin for the first time, awed that Vitya owned her; a bright voice alongside his own singing nursery rhymes and silly nonsense songs. He remembers asking, after every visit, “Mama, when’s Vitya coming next? Can he come tomorrow?”

A few months after the Turin Olympics, Papa’s job moved to Nizhny Novgorod. Vitya stayed in Saint Petersburg and they never saw him again.

 

***

 

Max wakes feeling like death.

His temples throb as if he’s been wearing a too-tight hat all night, and his mouth is dry and sour. He’s too thirsty and uncomfortable to go back to sleep, however much he might want to.

There’s the sound of soft footsteps moving around the room. Pasha’s voice asks, “Are you awake?”

“No.”

“Want some water?”

“Mh.”

Max blinks open his eyes and watches from floor level as Pasha’s feet make their way out of the room and back again. A water glass is set down next to his head, and then the feet move on and there’s the sound of a suitcase unzipping.

“You need to get up,” says Pasha. “We’re going to lunch at the Katsukis’ onsen.”

Max rolls onto his back, groaning. “What’s an onsen?”

“An inn by a hot spring.”

“Do I have to come?”

“Yes. It would be rude not to. We ought to meet Yuuri’s parents properly.” Pasha finishes digging in his suitcase, coming up with a fancily-wrapped box of chocolates. “Have some painkillers. You’ll feel better in half an hour.”

Max drags himself up to a sitting position, wincing, gulps down some up the water and accepts the painkillers Pasha hands him. Then he takes himself off to the bathroom and spends a long time standing under the hot spray, his mind going in circles. Back before they’d been invited, Katya had worried what she’d say if someone asked her what the wedding was like. Now Max finds himself wondering what he’ll do if people ask about Vitya. Before this, he’s always had the same answer.

_“He’s my dad’s son from his first marriage. He doesn’t stay in touch with the family. Too busy and important, I guess. I never really knew him.”_

That was fine. That was just the way things were. Victor Nikiforov was a stranger who happened to be related to them.

Except… he doesn’t think he can bear to tell that lie anymore.

He doesn’t know how long it took before he stopped asking Mama when Vitya was coming to visit. But even when he realised the truth, he spent years watching Vitya skate, and win, and hold up gold medals on the other side of a TV screen.

 

***

 

The onsen turns out to be a pretty, wood-framed building, more traditional-looking than their hotel. The woman who opens the door is in her fifties, small and plump, with her son’s round face and an air of warmth and hospitality. Vitya is with her, looking ridiculously tall and slender by comparison. She doesn’t even come up to his shoulder.

“Little ones, this is Yuuri’s mama, Katsuki Hiroko.”

Hiroko beams at them all. “Hello. Welcome to our home,” she says. The Russian is so accented it’s barely comprehensible, but Vitya snakes an arm around her from behind and declares, “Perfect, Mama!”

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” says Pasha. Then he holds out the pretty box of chocolates to her with both hands and says something in Japanese. He’s answered with an even more delighted smile, and they’re all ushered inside. Introductions don’t take long - Yuuri’s family is small, just his mother, father and one sister.

“This is so nice!” says Vitya, as they go through to a capacious dining room. “The Nikiforovs and the Katsukis together.”

Pasha’s hand clamps onto Max’s forearm. Max shakes it off and shoots him a sideways glare and an eyeroll to say that, no, he’s not going to stand in the middle of Yuuri’s lovely family and point out that two Nikiforovs are missing.

It’s quite a spread at the dining table. Max somehow hadn’t realised that keeping an inn meant Yuuri’s parents must do a lot of cooking, and it’s impressive, the way it takes so little time to get everyone settled with bowls of piping hot food and a multitude of side dishes to help themselves from. After the flurry of serving, the conversation flows with the slightly forced ease that suggests everyone’s trying hard to make a good impression, only somewhat hindered by the various different languages they’re communicating in.

Pasha talks to Vitya – or rather, keeps Vitya talking by asking interested questions and giving encouraging responses. From the subtle glances he’s casting in Max’s direction, he’s deliberately keeping Vitya’s attention so Max doesn’t have to deal with him. At the other end of the table Katya is being artfully naive, asking about the different dishes and carefully pronouncing their names, letting Yuuri’s parents show her how to hold her chopsticks correctly, asking Yuuri to teach her a few phrases in Japanese.

With everyone else occupied, Max is left to talk to Mari, Yuuri’s sister. From the wedding speech and her body language when she talks to her family, he guesses that she’s funny and a little mean, but it doesn’t really come through in the conversation. Her English is much worse than Katya’s, which means Max can stick to automatic pleasantries. Hasetsu is beautiful, he says, in answer to her textbook-phrased questions. No, he hasn’t been to Japan before, but it’s very interesting and he’s delighted to have a chance to see it. He’s sixteen years old and in high school. He likes to play the violin. Yes, it’s good to see Vitya again, it’s been a very long time. Oh, do the Katsuki’s call him Vic-chan? After Yuuri’s dog? How adorable.

It’s exhausting and his head aches, but at least the food is good.

After lunch, Katya asks for a tour of the onsen. Max trails along, but finds the hot spring area too hot and humid to cope with. He excuses himself and makes his way back out into the entrance area, taking deep breaths. That’s where Pasha finds him.

“Come with me for a minute.”

“What?” says Max. He’s irritable, sick of being polite, and he can’t deal with Pasha’s infuriating _calm_ on top of it all.

Pasha nods towards the open door to a large, sunny courtyard. Max turns to look. Outside, on the far side, is Vitya.

“You wanted to talk to him,” says Pasha. “He’ll listen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night you said you wanted to tell him how you felt. I wouldn’t let you. But it isn’t his wedding day anymore. You deserve the chance, if you still want it.”

Max grits his teeth. “You shouldn’t have… I don’t need your help.”

“I promised.”

“Fuck, Pasha.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Then Pasha says, “He’s waiting. Do you want to talk? If you don’t, I need to tell him.”

Max takes a breath. Bubbling deep down, the anger from the night before is ever-present. “He’s a fucking asshole,” he says.

Pasha shrugs.

“I don’t know what to say to him.”

“Don’t ask me.”

“You’re an asshole too,” says Max. He can’t help snorting out a laugh, though he can’t draw a proper breath as he turns towards the courtyard door.

“Don’t hit him,” says Pasha. “You’re impossible when you can’t play.”

“Fuck off.”

It’s hard to make himself walk out there into the sunshine. Last night, buoyed up by alcohol and anger, he knows the words would have come easily, disjointed and confused though they might have been. Now, in the light of day, Vitya seems once again untouchable, distant, alien. Not a person Max could talk to like a human being.

Vitya looks round as he comes over, and for a moment he actually does look like Pasha, his face is so serious. “So what do you want to tell me?” he asks. Then he gives a sparkling smile. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

There’s a stone bench by the wall, hot from the sun. Max sits. It’s easier if he doesn’t have to look Vitya in the eye.

Vitya sits down too. He waits. He stands up. He sits down again. Finally he breaks the silence. “Well, go on. I haven’t got all day.” There’s warmth in his voice, like he’s joking, but a hint of impatience too.

Max clenches his fists. “You’re not special,” he says. “You think everyone loves you because you’re the hero of Russia, but that doesn’t make you special. None of it. Not your million gold medals or your money or your perfect life or your perfect husband. You’re not better than us.”

“ _Better_ than you?” echoes Vitya.

“You want to pretend like you have a family for your wedding? Fine. I don’t care. I’ll even play along, if I have to. But you’re not my brother. Pasha’s my brother. I don’t even know you. You’re just some stranger.”

“That’s--” Vitya begins. His voice high, shrill and shocked, and for a moment Max is viscerally glad of it. Then he tilts his head. “You’re mad at me,” he says.

Max glares at him. “I’m not mad. I just think you’re full of shit. You haven’t visited in ten years and now you’re all… what, hugs and dancing? It’s bullshit. You’re a liar. I don’t even know why you asked us here.”

“I asked you here because I wanted to see you,” says Vitya. His lips are tight, his eyes too bright. “I didn’t want to get married without you here. I’m mad too, okay? You’re all grown up and I didn’t get to see it.”

“What the… what the fuck? That’s your fault. You could have come back any time, if you’d cared about any of us. But you don’t.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah? When’s my birthday? How about Pasha’s? Katya’s? Shit, how about Papa’s?”

“Papa’s is February twentieth,” says Vitya quietly. “Yours is… some time in autumn, isn’t it? And Pasha’s is in summer. I have no idea about Katya’s. I suppose you know mine.”

“December twenty-fifth.”

Vitya’s lip curls. “Do you remember, or did you google it?”

“Of course I don’t remember! I was six years old when you went away.”

“ _I_ went away?” says Vitya. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

Max hunches his shoulders. “Whatever,” he says. “You stopped visiting. You could have visited us in Nizhny after we moved. You had money.”

“I was nineteen years old.”

“Pasha’s nineteen,” Max retorts. “If he’d gone to college in Saint Petersburg he would have visited.”

“Perfect Pavel. Katya told me you still call him that.”

“Shut up! You don’t get to—you don’t get to laugh at him.”

“I’m not.”

“Just admit you didn’t want to visit.”

“You’re right, I didn’t,” snaps Vitya. “Is that what you want to hear?”

It isn’t. Max doesn’t even want to be having this conversation anymore. He’s sweating with the heat and the aftereffects of alcohol and he’s beginning to feel really shitty about the whole thing. He stares at his shoes. Next to him, Vitya’s breathing is fast and shallow.

There’s another long silence. This time Max is the one to break it.

“I heard… Pasha said you used to fight with Papa.”

“And what does Papa say?”

Max hesitates. He shrugs. “It’s not like we spend all our time sitting around talking about you.”

Vitya gives the smallest of laughs. “How surprising.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. And I didn’t fight with Papa. Not really. Mostly he told me how I was letting myself down, and I cried about it and didn’t do anything to change it. He was always so disappointed in me. I’m… I’m good at skating, Max. Skating and looking pretty. Nothing else.”

“You’re more than _good_ at skating,” Max says, so incredulous that he has to jerk his head up and stare. “You’re a fucking Olympic gold medallist twice over. You’re a national icon.”

“It never made up for the rest.”

He says it quietly, but there’s such a bitter mix of sadness and anger in the words that it leaves a bad taste in Max’s mouth. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Do you remember the Turin Olympics?” asks Vitya.

“Kind of.”

“I won silver. I wanted so badly for it to be gold. For him. To impress him. But I couldn’t do it.”

Max shifts on the bench. “Papa wouldn’t have been disappointed in you for that.”

“He wasn’t,” says Vitya. “He said, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter._ I’d worked my whole life, and he acted like it was just some… some silly, irrelevant competition. The Olympics. Four years later I did win gold, and you know what he said to me then? Nothing _._ He wasn’t there. He didn’t even call.”

“He must have had a reason,” says Max. His chest feels unpleasantly tight.

Vitya’s laugh is short and somehow scornful. “I shouldn’t say nasty things about your father, should I? I’m sure he’s very nice to you.”

“Yes, he is. He’s a good father.”

This time the laugh is more like a gasp. Max catches the slight tremble to Vitya’s lips, and ducks his head down again so he doesn’t have to look.

“You thought my medal mattered,” says Vitya. “You wanted to hold it all the time. The only good part of that Olympics was having you there.”

Max would have gone to the next one too. He would have gone to all of them, if he’d been invited. He scowls, pressing his foot hard against the cobbled ground just for the distraction of sensation. “Whatever,” he says. “So you’re pissed at Papa. So fucking what? It’s not an excuse. If you can send a wedding invitation, you could have sent a letter before. Or emailed, or something. Twitter. I don’t know. If you’d wanted to have anything to do with us, you could’ve. But you didn’t. You can’t blame papa for that.”

Vitya seems to shrink as the defiance leaches out of him. “It’s true,” he says, “I can’t blame Papa. Maybe that was what stopped me when I was younger, but… no, there have been enough times when I’ve thought about getting in touch, finding out how the three of you are doing. I just never got around to it. There was always something else to do, and it was inconvenient, or I forgot, or it seemed like it wouldn’t hurt to leave it until later.”

“So you didn’t care enough.”

“I don’t know,” says Vitya. There are tears in his eyes now. “It feels like I care. But I suppose you’re right. Not enough.”

Max swallows hard and gets to his feet. “Good to know,” he says.

He’s shaking as he as he walks back into the onsen. With anger, maybe. But he can’t quite focus on the anger. His memory is reaching back six years to a February morning when Pasha had prodded him and Katya awake while the sky was still dark outside, so they could watch the figure skating live from Vancouver. He wishes he could remember what Papa had said about it. Whether he’d smiled when Vitya had won. Whether he’d watched at all.

Just inside the door, Pasha meets him with an inquisitive head tilt. Max shrugs and steps past him.

“I’m tired,” he says. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Alright. I’ll ask Yuuri to get you a cab.”

“I’ll walk.”

“It’s a long way.”

“I want to walk.”

Pasha gives a _fine, whatever_ nod. “We’ll see you back there,” he says, and goes out into the courtyard. Max turns towards the front door. He can hear Katya’s voice from somewhere to his left, and Yuuri’s American-accented English, and he really doesn’t want to be around to talk to them. But he pauses, unable to get Vitya’s tear-filled eyes out of his mind.

Impulsively, he turns back to the courtyard door and looks out. There are two people on the bench now, side by side, shoulders touching and heads bent together. From this distance you could almost imagine they were twins, though one has chestnut brown hair and the other silver-blond. Pasha has his arm around Vitya’s shoulders.

Fuck Pasha. Always looking after everyone, whether they deserve it or not.

 

***

 

Max walks for a long time.

Hasetsu really is beautiful, with its bright flowers and views of the sparkling sea, but the sun is blazing. He’s far too hot in the collared shirt Pasha forced him into. Within an hour or so he’s desperately thirsty.

There’s a street of little shops one way, but the thought of the awkward human interaction, of trying to figure out prices with a cashier who only speaks Japanese, sounds like too much effort. Then, in the other direction, he sees the squat, familiar silhouette of Ice Castle Hasetsu. Thinking back to the day before, he’s sure there were vending machines in the lobby.

He’s right. Through the glass doors, across from the skate hire area, is a row of machines. He skirts a group of teenagers holding clunky blue-plastic skates to get a closer look. The machines are pleasantly similar to the ones at home. Put in money, type in the code, voila. The only drink he recognises is Evian water, so he gets one of those, and something with the word _lemon_ on, and a mystery drink in a bright green bottle just to see what it is.

As he makes his way back across the room, the woman behind the skate counter calls out a hello to him in English.

“Can I get you a ticket?” she asks him. “We have a special offer all week. Half price, in honour of the wedding.”

“I just wanted a drink. I don’t know how to skate.”

“Well, why not give it a try? You’ve got to start somewhere!”

On the benches, little children sit impatiently, their parents kneeling in front of them to tie the laces of their tiny skates. Max wonders if he was ever in their place. Maybe somewhere in the forgotten past Mama had tied his skates for him and he’d tottered along on the ice, holding Vitya’s hand.

He shakes his head. “No. Thank you,” he says, and pushes his way through the door before she can say anything else.

The way back to the hotel from the rink is already familiar. He draws it out with unnecessary detours, killing time and working his way through the still unidentifiable but not unpleasant liquid in the green bottle.

Eventually, out of drinks and probably sunburned, he has to go back. In their suite, Pasha has his laptop out on the table, along with a couple of books and some folders of papers. He glances up as Max comes in, gives a half smile, and returns to his revision. Max goes to their room, flops down on the futon and closes his eyes.

There’s a light scraping sound as the screen slides open again. Katya’s in the doorway frowning down at him.

“Go away. I want to sleep.”

“You know we have to go out again soon,” she says.

“Why?”

“There’s a party, dummy. In a restaurant somewhere. They’re having dinner with all their friends before they leave for their honeymoon tomorrow.”

“We don’t have to go, then. We aren’t their friends.”

“We’re family _._ ”

“No we’re not.”

“We are!” says Katya, exasperated. She steps over him to the free side of the futon and lies on her back, looking up at the ceiling. After a moment, quieter, she says, “He’s nice. Vitya, I mean. He’s funny. I had such a great time last night dancing with him, and today after you left he told all these hilarious stories about you and Pasha when you were little. And Yuuri’s sweet. I really like them. Why do you have to be such a jerk about it all?”

“I don’t know,” says Max, and suddenly he’s holding his breath, pressing his hand against his mouth, because if he doesn’t he’s going to burst into tears.

“Shit,” says Katya. “Pasha!”

Her arms go around him, and a moment later Pasha’s there too, on his other side. Max leans into their warmth and closes his eyes and breathes until he’s himself again.

 

***

 

Neither of them says anything when he picks up his violin case on the way out. Katya just gives Pasha a nudge, and he rests his hand on her shoulder. Max glares at the backs of their heads as he falls into step behind them.

It was an unplanned impulse, taking the violin, but he knows exactly what he’s going to do.

It’s a smallish restaurant, not laid out for a big party. Someone has made an attempt to shove the tables together, but it’s an inconvenient L-shape with booths here and there. It’s bustling with people, milling around and chatting and laughing. The Katsukis are there, and most of the skaters from the performance the day before. Max even recognises the woman who’d been behind the counter at the ice rink. She’s trying to talk to Yuuri, though they’re being constantly interrupted by three identical chattering little girls. In the midst of another group, Max thinks he catches a glimpse of sliver-blond hair.

“Katya!” calls a female voice. “Come sit with us!”

Katya gives a tiny squeal and bounces over to hug Mila Babicheva, her new favourite person. Pasha and Max trail behind, and the three of them end up at a table with Mila and her girlfriend on one side, and Georgi Popovitch and his on the other.

“Oh thank god, we can speak Russian,” says Katya.

Pasha eyes the free seat at the table. Max can practically hear him thinking that starting a conversation in Russian would prevent anyone non-Russian from joining them. Then he catches Max’s glare. He gives a rueful twitch of his mouth and turns to make pleasant small talk with Georgi’s girlfriend.

Max lets the conversation flow over him, watching the room as drinks and snacks are brought out and people begin to settle. When it’s quiet enough, he lifts the violin case onto the table and unzips it.

Pasha and Katya fall silent.

“What are you doing, Max?” asks Mila.

Max ignores her. He gets to his feet, picking up his glass as he does. There are no forks on the table, so he uses a spoon to tap the glass for attention. It works impressively well for such a small noise. Conversations trickle to nothing. Everyone looks his way.

He takes a deep breath. “Hello,” he says. He casts his eyes around the room, keeping them away from Vitya’s table. “I’m Maxim Alexandrovich Nikiforov and I’d like to play for you.”

There’s a confused scatter of applause. Max tucks the violin under his chin and belatedly checks the tuning. He should have tuned it before he got into the dining room, not in front of everyone while they wait and murmur to each other. It’s too awkward to get a note from his phone app, but he gets the violin in tune with itself within a few seconds, so that’s good enough.

He’s blushing and a tense by the time he’s done, but he’s played feeling far more nervous than this. He raises his bow and closes his eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing fall into step with the waltz pulse in his mind. Then he brings the bow down smoothly, drawing out the first bright note of the Lilac Fairy, holding it for a long moment until the pulse catches up with it and carries it away. The music dances for a couple of strains alongside a slender, teenaged Victor Nikiforov, blue satin costume and long silver hair, and then takes a vertiginous drop into the powerful chords of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, Vitya’s first senior programme.

He’s done this before, dozens of times, when the house was empty and there was nobody to hear. He can’t do it perfectly – he knows the pieces individually, classical to rock, pop to ragtime, but he’s never sat down and worked the segments out properly, never planned every note. He fudges a couple of transitions, and at one point he finds himself in an almost impossible key. But he never loses his momentum. He can feel the intensity in the room, and he knows he has them all spellbound as he finally swoops into On Love, the slow, bell-like Agape ramping up and up to the frantic energy of Eros. Then a crescendo that merges crazily, impossibly into the phrase _e i battiti del cuore_ and on, the last notes of Stammi Vicino fading to nothing.

There’s always a breathless moment at the end of a performance where everyone is poised, waiting, unsure. Max lowers his bow, breaking the silence with a movement, and the applause hits like a wave. He didn’t know a dining room’s worth of figure skaters could make so much noise. They’re whooping and cheering, jumping to their feet, clapping up a storm.

He stands there, breathing hard, looking around in amazement at the smiling faces. Even Katya looks impressed. Pasha is grinning, open and unrestrained.

Finally Max lets his eyes seek out Vitya.

Vitya isn’t clapping. His hands are clasped at his chest, his eyes are wet, and he looks like he’s been given the most wonderful gift in the world.

Max hadn’t meant it as a gift. He isn’t sure what he meant it as. An accusation, maybe. A stupid, childish accusation, a way to shout out, _look what you did!_

_You left me alone for ten years, and I never forgot you, and it hurt._

Now, looking at Vitya’s face, he wishes he’d meant it as something nice. He wishes the piece had been a wedding present, played to make Vitya smile. But whatever he meant by it, it _has_ made Vitya smile.

Yuuri, too, is smiling, not at Max but at Vitya, and Max thinks that actually Yuuri’s the one who resembles Pasha more. Vitya has someone to look after him too, and that’s… that’s good. That’s something to be glad about.

He bows in Vitya’s direction, mutters a thank you to the rest of the audience and sits down in a hurry, ducking his head and taking longer than necessary to loosen his bow and put the violin back into its case. Katya jostles her shoulder into his, muttering, “That was really cool,” and Pasha ruffles his hair like he’s still a little kid.

When he looks up from his task, everyone has sat back down, but Yuuri is still on his feet. His cheeks are pink. “Um, that was Max, my new brother-in-law,” he says. He waits for another scatter of applause to die down. “Victor and I are so grateful to everyone who came to celebrate with us, but I’m especially grateful for the chance to meet Victor’s siblings. Pasha, Max, Katya, it means so much to us that you’re here.”

He holds Max’s gaze for a moment, then glances down at Vitya. They’re holding hands.

“Unfair, Yuuri,” Christophe Giacometti calls from somewhere off to the side. “If we’re doing a talent show, you should have provided a pole.”

“No one wants to see that, you pervert,” yells Yuri Plisetsky from the other side. “Your routine yesterday was disgusting enough.”

Vitya gives a slightly shaky laugh, and stands back up. “Now, now, Yura,” he says. “I enjoyed Chris’s routine _very_ much, and you know it would have beaten yours if we’d had judges. You’re getting lazy with your free leg. ” He wags his finger. “Just because the season’s over is no excuse for sloppy skating!”

The room turns into a bit of a clamour at that. People are laughing, cutting in, and shouting each other down. Finally the waiters start to deliver plates of food and the talk calms down until everyone’s back to talking within their tables.

Max listens to the comforting Russian chatter around him until he’s ready to pull himself together, find his own version of Pasha’s polite and pleasant exterior, and join the conversation like a normal human being.

He’s listening to Katya and Mila talk about Surya Bonaly’s backflips when, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Victor and Yuuri making their way over. He looks away, focuses on the conversation like he hasn’t noticed, and doesn’t turn around again until they’re right next to him. Then he looks up into Vitya’s face.

Vitya isn’t smiling now, but his eyes are still shining. “Max. Wow,” he says. “You play beautifully.”

“Thanks.”

“I had no idea you--” he says, and then cuts himself off and starts again. “You must work very hard at your music.”

“I enjoy it.”

Are you going to play professionally?”

Max shrugs, cheeks hot. “It’s just a hobby. I want to go to business school after college.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well there. But I hope you’ll keep playing, for as long as it makes you happy.”

“Yeah.”

It’s horribly awkward. Max wishes Pasha or Katya would jump in and say something – anything – but they’re both silent. It’s just Max and Vitya, and a half dozen people around them studiously not intruding.

“I thought you’d do this year’s pieces too,” says Vitya. “But you ended with Stammi Vicino.”

“It’s my favourite. And… I didn’t watch you much this year,” says Max. After the invitation arrived, he hadn’t really wanted to. It seems silly now. “I don’t know the new ones very well.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” he blurts.

“Don’t be sorry. You don’t have to watch.”

“I didn’t know it would be your last year competing.”

“I didn’t either. Not until the Grand Prix Final.”

Max ducks his head. “Everything’s on YouTube anyway. I’ll watch them.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will. I… I can play the music for you, uh, next time.”

He almost stutters over the last words. Some part of his brain is screaming at him that there won’t be a next time. It’s just one wedding, a one-off, and then things will go back to normal. Vitya will be a distant figure on TV. They’re never going to see him again.

“Next time,” Vitya echoes. “I’d like that.”

Yuuri, standing at Vitya’s side, speaks for the first time. He must have been following the Russian, but he speaks in English. “We’ll arrange it,” he says. “We’ll keep in touch.” He kisses Vitya on the cheek. “I’ll make sure.”

“Thank you, Yuuri,” says Pasha, embarrassingly earnest. Yuuri goes pink.

Eventually, mercifully, Vitya and Yuuri turn back to their own table, with a promise of, “We’ll drop by tomorrow morning to say a proper goodbye before we go.”

Max wishes they wouldn’t. It’s all too much. He feels like he won’t be able to get through another meeting. He can’t tell how he feels about anything, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets home, or what he’s going to say.

_Papa, do you know that Vitya hates you? Do you care?_

No. He can’t do that. Maybe he’ll talk to Mama, the way Pasha always does. Maybe that’s the right place to start.

He pushes the worry to the back of his mind. It’ll keep. They’ve got three more days in Hasetsu, with no weddings or parties to interrupt them.

“Hey,” he says to Katya, “have you and Pasha decided what we’re doing tomorrow?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. We were going to ask you what you felt like. Mari offered to show us some of the sights, and there’s the beach. Or we could try out the ice rink. We can laugh at Pasha trying to be dignified when he falls on his backside.”

“I resent that,” says Pasha mildly.

“So, which do you want to do?”

Max smiles what feels like it might be his first real smile since they arrived. “We’ll do all of them,” he says.

He’s looking forward to it – to being just the three of them, just him and his brother and his sister. They’ll splash together in the sea. They’ll totter around on the ice holding onto each other. They’ll make Mari take a photo of them in front of some fancy monument, all in a row, Katya wrinkling her nose at the camera, Pasha with his arm over Max’s shoulders. In the evenings Pasha will do his law revision. Katya will sit chewing on a pencil, staring into space while angles and numbers dance in her mind. And Max will go out to the waterfront across the road from the hotel to play Stammi Vicino where neither of them can hear.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts on the story! If you'd prefer to comment in your native language, please do - I'll figure it out.


End file.
